This blog started out as an email to close friends and family about our travels when I retired in 2016. Family told family and friends told friends until at some point my email server reported me as spam.
“You need a blog” someone said.
“What’s a blog?”
A friend I met in a coffee shop (where else?) said “I’ll show you” and 2WastedMinutes.com was born. It had a good run as a travel journal while we went all over the US and Canada in our motorhome, towing a Jeep behind, seeing places and meeting interesting people.
In 2019 however it morphed into a blog of a different kind of journey. I was told I had tongue cancer while driving our 40,000 pound motorhome down I-90 in Eastern Washington. It was unreal to hear my name and cancer in the same sentence. I was 10 miles from the nearest exit, going 65 mph, no place to pull over and process. “Not a big deal” said my surgeon. “If you are going to have cancer, this is the one to have.” I told him we’d turn around and head back home right away, asking “how soon can I get in for surgery?” No rush he replied, but I rushed.
Surgery was scheduled, the tumor was removed, I went home within a day or two and healed well. After 3 weeks, I was back to normal. Wasn’t this too easy? Cancer is not supposed to be like this is it?
It isn’t.
My surgeon had not taken enough margin around the tumor. Four months later, cancer returned in the same place.
The next surgery was not quick and easy. I went in for surgery on March 5, 2020, and came out 8 1/2 hours later with the right half of my tongue gone and replaced with the skin from my forearm (called a flap), hair and all, and I was minus some lymph nodes. They took out one of my two arteries in my left arm to connect the dots. For good measure they inserted a tracheotomy and a feeding tube. I was a big swollen mess.
During my 8 days in the hospital, the world shut down due to Covid. Had I waited another week to schedule this surgery I would probably not have been allowed to have it until it was too late. They were saving all the beds for Covid patients.
But I did have the surgery, plus 6 weeks of radiation thereafter. Painful, excruciating at times, difficult. This was how I anticipated cancer would be.
I was told I needed to build up my weight from 170 to 190 before radiation would commence. “All you’ll have going for you Ken is rest and calories.” So I did. “And you’ll need to keep your weight at 190 throughout radiation.” Not easy, but I did.
After radiation was completed I asked “when can I take my foot off the gas and lose weight?” Not yet, they said. Chewing was hard. Swallowing was worse. My taste buds had been obliterated by radiation. I had no saliva. The flap was swollen. I bit my cheeks and flap every time I tried to take a bite. Food consisted mostly of protein drinks and shakes. It didn’t matter what flavor – I had no taste.
Months went by, and finally some taste returned. I started chewing food. The swelling started to recede. Even the slightest bit of spice or heat was painful but I slowly discovered some recipes for foods I could actually enjoy.
With the help of a wonderful cancer team, we slowly got a handle on how I could heal and the things I could eat. Fortuitously I discovered an oral oncologist who treated a fungus in my mouth that radiation had given me. Slowly, the pain of eating went away. More taste buds came back. I started to gain weight.
Five years passed.
In May of this year, I told my swallowing therapist “remember when you told me I had to keep my foot on the gas and keep my weight up, and finally you said OK, you can SLOWLY start dropping your weight? And then I dropped back to 170?”
She smiled.
I pointed to my protruding stomach and told her I was now at 210 lbs. Yikes!
“I LOVE that belly!” she replied. “So many of the patients who have gone through what you did NEVER gain weight. They are emaciated, sickly, and have difficulty eating anything at all. That pot belly means you can eat and actually enjoy eating!“
A bit too much my wife would say.
Yesterday I went in for a routine follow up with my cancer team. They said, “as far as we’re concerned you’re cured. It’s been over 5 years. No reason to schedule a follow up. Call us if something gets worse but right now everything looks great.”
Hugs all around. And then we celebrated.
Click below for two tunes that have been rattling around my brain today…
Leaving New York on Amtrak’s Maple Leaf train, I jockeyed for a decent seat in Business Class. One might think that Business Class entitles one to a reserved seat, but on Amtrak one would be wrong. People came, people left, and I was able to scoot over to a decent window seat and watch as we got closer to my homeland – Canada! An exceedingly well-groomed man in a finely tailored suit wearing whatever the male equivalent is of Jimmy Choo shoes, looking for all the world like CNN’s Ali Velshi, sat nearby in a good seat, but not as good as mine.
As we crossed over the Niagra River, people headed to the side of the train where they could see a tiny bit of Niagra Falls. I was content where I was. As a child I had seen it many times. I have probably a hundred relatives within 50 miles of the Falls and while visiting them we often went to the Falls.
I assumed that on reaching the Canadian side an officer of Canadian customs would walk down the aisle, smiling, asking questions and requesting documents before moving to the next row. Instead we were told to exit the train with all our luggage in hand and go into a little building on our left. Struggling, I got out and in a somewhat chaotic manner we all made our way into the building and awaited our turn for the long wait to see a customs agent. Mine was pleasant, asked minimal questions, handed me back my passport, and told me to go back out that building and down to another door of the same building, there to await permission to go right back on the train we had just exited.
A small elderly woman was in a similar situation and we chugged down the path trying to figure out which door to enter. I could barely keep up with her. We found the door we were supposed to enter, and went in to find at least a hundred teenagers who were obviously part of some school program waiting for our train, but now they were ahead of us. We barely made it into the large room, the entry door closing firmly against my butt. The elderly woman was amiable and spoke freely of her late husband, and the husbands who had gone before, and introduced herself. Rachel spoke of her academic work at Cornell, and the scientific textbook she had written. She added, “that was my second book, my first was on the history of vibrators.”
This captured my interest, in part because I had been reading a book about sex for seniors (Naked at our Age, and for my young readers I apologize for the images that may now be indelibly imprinted in your impressionable brains) that virtually glorified the use of vibrators by seniors. Before I was able to explore this intriguing topic with her, Rachel found an opening to get out of the building and spirited back to our Business Class car. She was gone. When I slowly ambled up into the car, somehow Jimmy Choo man had eclipsed us both and was sitting in my seat. No matter, we were approaching Hamilton and soon to arrive in Toronto.
I remembered that on my family’s many trips from Toronto to the family farm in the Niagra area, we would pass a little donut shop that had been opened by my favorite hockey player – Toronto Maple Leafs number 7. I wore his jersey. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Tim Horton. I looked but could not find it. He had long ago sold his rights for a pittance, and although it is now owned by Wendy’s, Tim Horton’s remains Canada’s favorite coffee shop.
The train arrived in Toronto, and despite the utter lack of decent signage I found my way to the main foyer, and then across the street to the Royal York Hotel. This hotel has a special place in my heart I since it was where my wife and I headed as a newly married couple on her first trip to Canada with me. As Carol and I were driving toward Toronto in 1975, anxious to experience the rare luxury (for us then) of a hotel like the stately Royal York, we heard on the radio of a murder that had taken place in a downtown Toronto hotel – the Royal York. The entire hotel had been cordoned off, with no one permitted in or out. We went to another historic hotel, the King Edward, where through thin walls we heard the couple in the next room vigorously experimenting with various positions in their squeaky bed throughout the night. The Royal York it was not.
Fifty years later almost to the day, I walked in and presented myself to the front desk of the Royal York. Carol was to join me the next day, having flown to Toronto earlier to see her relatives. Front Desk Man lit up and said “Mr Fransen, it appears that you have been given a complimentary upgrade to a suite!” The room was indeed a lovely suite. On entering however I discovered that it overlooked an area that was the venue for the Caribbean Music Festival that went until midnight each day. No matter, I always stay up until 1am and like Caribbean music.
I went to the hotel restaurant and ordered something.
Soon after, a lovely woman, Tumi, took a seat at the table next to mine. We visited briefly.
On the other side of me was a large table of women who I learned were from the Bay Area having a gals’ weekend in Toronto. Tumi was shy, but after awhile shared with me that she lives in Toronto, works in IT, and was thinking of moving to California. I leaned over to Tumi and with a wink said, “you are going to hate me for what I am about to do.” I then turned to the ladies on the other side and said “my new friend Tumi here works in IT in Toronto, but is thinking of moving to California, and wonders if it would be OK if she joined you.” They erupted in a chorus of “yes absolutely, come join us!” She joined them and they all had a great time.
The next day was unstructured, except that I wanted to see where I was born. I knew only that it was on or near Yonge Street, and served a poulation that included women who were unencumbered by husbands.
I knew this because my mom had told me that when I was born, my dad – a porter on the railroad – was on the train to Montreal. She arrived by taxi. On being asked if she was married, she told the nurses she had a husband, but having arrived by taxi with no man in sight they did not believe her and she was assigned a bed in the wing reserved for unwed mothers. Shortly after I was delivered, the head nurse of that wing sternly told my mom if she wanted to go to the bathroom she had to go there by herself. My mom dutifully did so with nary a complaint. A day or two later, her doctor came and said, “Mary you seem to be doing well. You can start sitting up in bed and dangling your legs over the side.” “Oh doctor, I have been up and around and going to the bathroom,” she told him. “Why,” exclaimed the doctor to the head nurse, “have you been treating this woman this way? And why is she in this ward?” Horrified, the head nurse said “she came by taxi, without a man, so we thought she was one of those women.” My mom was moved to the other wing, and treated like royalty until my dad got back and brought us home.
So off I went to find the place of my birth. The best way to get around in Toronto is the subway. Transit systems today have their own unique smartcards or dumbcards or the like. However I had learned in DC that if you levitate your iPhone over the digital reader, magic happens, there is a beep, you get a green light, and are allowed through the turnstile. I had no idea if the fare was going to be charged to me or the Underhills, but it worked in Toronto too.
As a young boy my mother, being either adventurous or just loving shopping too much to stay at home, often took me on the subway downtown to Eaton’s and Simpson’s. She cautioned me not to get too close to the edge because if I fell and touched the middle rail I would be electrocuted. I was more concerned about being run over by the train. Many nightmares ensued.
With the help of Mr Google, and a phone call, I deduced that I had likely been born at Grace Hospital, run by the Salvation Army and open to the maritally encumbered and unencumbered. The original hospital was torn down in the 1950’s but had been rebuilt in 1957 a block away.
My mission accomplished, I wandered the streets of the city of my birth. Very near where I was born I discovered where sex once lived enthusiastically and apparently where it died.
As I wandered I noted this street sign for “Avenue Rd.”
Presumably not far from Boulevard Street.
My family left Toronto when I was 11, went to Winnipeg for a year, and then Regina Saskatchewan in the prairies for two years. That is where I learned what 40 degrees below zero feels like. Hint: it doesn’t feel cold, it just hurts. When the temperature rises to 20 degrees below, you are so relieved you doff your parka and play in the snow. I could not have been happier when we moved to central California in 1967 and traded 40 below in the winter for 100 degrees in the summer. My parents, having married off their children in the 1970’s, moved back to the Toronto area. Every time I would go back to visit them I would ask, “tell me again, why did we leave Toronto??” I loved it as a child and love it now.
After a reunion with my wife, who had flown to Toronto from Portland, and some of her family,
off we went to the Sultan’s Tent for dinner, passing a fountain unique in that the liquid was emitted from a different orifice than normal for a canine.
Ever the dog lover, Carol made friends with one of them.
The Sultan’s Tent is a Moroccan restaurant. To my absolute shock and horror, they also had belly dancers. After a time the dancers invited the diners to join them for the completely educational and cultural experience, with no sensuality whatsoever, of learning how to belly dance. Despite protestations, some were moved to do so in order to avoid an international incident.
This photo may falsely suggest my wife and I actually took a belly dancing lesson from this lovely woman. We didn’t. That is not me. It was a ruse and I utterly deny it. Didn’t happen. I don’t know why you brought it up.
Now on to the more important issue of cereal boxes. Perhaps my friend Rachel can write a book about this. When I was young cereal boxes were made properly, with English on one side, and some promo for toys young boys might want on the back. Cereal was chosen not for the contents but for whatever they were selling on the back. My parents gave me free reign to buy the cereal when we went to the store because it allowed them to shop in peace while I ogled all the toys and other offers on the backs of cereal boxes. At least until they realized I wan’t actually eating the cereal, just cutting out the offers on the back. Then in the 1960s, Quebec threatened to secede from Canada unless they made the back of cereal boxes the same as the front except in French (or as the French would say, make the front the same as the back, just in English). Whether this is why my family left Canada for California in 1967 or not, it was enough for me.
Yet a memory has always remained of those glorious cereal box offers: to win a trip on the CN Canadian train, with a dome car and happy people. Fulfilling a childhood dream of mine, Carol and I boarded the ViaRail Canadian the next day for the four day journey to Vancouver BC.
We saw forests, lakes, rivers, towns, boats and seaplanes, the Canadian Shield, the prairies, and the Rockies.
At one point I realized that my dad, who spent WWII working for the forest service in western Canada, had traveled there by train. This train. The train I was on. On this railroad. He would have looked out and seen the same forest I was now looking at.
Along the way, we enjoyed live music (and how she did not fall while enduring track changes at 100mph I do not know).
We met some fascinating people. Colin (right), an Englishman, and Stuart, a New York Jew who proudly pulled out his Spanish passport and refused to pronounce the letter “s” (which is pronounced “th” in Spain), were a fascinating pair who obtained their Spanish citizenship when Spain was among the first countries to allow gay marriage. During the sing-along sessions, Stu would dominate with his basso profundo voice – he had sung in the opera for a time.
Dori and Rachel were among the many who took great care of us.
We finally arrived in Vancouver BC, and had a couple of wonderful days there, including our first experience with Wagyu Beef Hot Stone.
But after 3 weeks on the train around the US and Canada, I said, “I just want to get home.” So we cancelled the last leg of our trip on Amtrak, bought tickets on Alaska Air, and flew home from Vancouver to Vancouver.
Obviously, this post has exceeded the 2 minute advertised limit and for this I apologize. Simply fill out the form on the back of this cereal box and send it along with a self-addressed stamped email to the undersigned for a complete refund. Unless you are French.
“How come you don’t want to travel any more?” she asked. And she was right. My wife correctly diagnosed me. I had become a stick in the mud.
So a few months ago I started planning a circuit of North America by rail. The primary motivation was to take my grandson, along with my son and son in law, to the greatest aviation event in the world that you have never heard of – the Oshkosh AirVenture. I know, you’ve never heard of it, but it is far and away the largest aviation event in the world. Over 600,000 people and 10,000 airplanes in a little town in Wisconsin that for 6 days becomes the busiest airport in the world.
If I was going to go that far, I might as well go to Washington DC as well, and hit the Air & Space Museums, and then go to NYC and go to some of the jazz clubs there, then on to Toronto where Carol would meet me and we would then take the cross-Canada train, the ViaRail Canadian, back to the West Coast.
But first I had to get out of Vancouver. The Empire Builder picked me up in Vancouver WA at 5pm. However, at 2:30pm that afternoon, the Boudin fire had erupted in the Columbia Gorge directly on our path. We stopped in White Salmon so the conductor could meet with local officials. Their wisdom was we could continue on two conditions. First, we would have to go no faster than 5 mph for the next 5 miles. Second, the train’s ventilation system would have to be turned off so the smoke would not be ingested into the train. Slowly we proceeded, and although the fire was only a few hours old it had already decimated miles of land on either side of the track.
The smoke was heavy, and it felt like we were in ocean fog, but finally we made it through and I enjoyed a lovely sunset:
All across the country, there was consturction at many RR stations, owing to the Biden infrastructure plan:
I suspect that will not continue for long.
I made it to Oshkosh, and joined up with the rest of my crew:
Lots of planes on the ground:
And in the air:
The daily air show was amazing, particularly an F-22 Raptor doing things that no airplane can possibly do:
The Heritage Flight is always a crowd favorite, here a P-51 from WWII accompanied by an F-22 from, well, now.
This old codger and I had a nice talk. I told him that I came within a whisker of buying an airplace like he was showing, a Meyers OTW (“Out to Win”). I asked what he wanted for it. He said “$75,000.” I said “that’s not enough.” He said “I know, but the only people interested in old airplanes like this are old people like you and me.” Point taken.
When I saw this guy, I assumed he was with one of the air demonstration parachuting groups:
I felt sorry for him. It was hot and humid, and I was sweating in a short sleeve shirt, while this poor guy was dressed up in a leather flight suit like he was going on a mission in a B-29, sweat beading down his nose. So I went over to talk to him and although he was not with any team, he was indeed waiting for his flight in a B-29. He said his grandfather served in WWII and his great uncle died in that war, so going up in a B-29, dressed up like a rear turret gunner, was his way of honoring them and their service. Not cheap, his short flight in “Doc” was going to set him back thousands of dollars. He was happy to pay it.
Cindy was a security guard, hired to sit by the entry to one of the eating areas and make sure no one took any beers beyond the fence. I was happy to enjoy the shade, she was happy to have some company. I asked if people actually tried to secret alcohol out, or if it was mostly people who weren’t aware. She said when she sees people heading to the exit with a beer she points to the sign and they apologize and leave the can at a table. Some people buy a half dozen beers to bring to their friends at the flight line. When she points to the sign they shrug, and chug them all down before leaving.
This guy had a novel way of selling an airplane.
When I first saw him from a distance I assumed his wife had a different plan.
For only $49.99 you too can have an autopilot:
And with that, it was time to take off from Oshkosh and head to D.C.
One can spend days, weeks at the various museums and art galleries in D.C. Seeing one of the actual Space Shuttles, unrestored exactly as it was when it landed, moved me since I still remember when the Columbia came across central California on its first return to earth. Our entire law firm clustered around a small TV one of the partners had in his office. As it came overhead on its way to Edwards Air Force Base we heard its sonic boom.
This was the prototype of the Boeing 707. While Boeing officials looked on, Boeing’s chief test pilot, Tex Johnson, made a high speed pass in this airplane at the Seattle Seafair in the 1950’s and executed a perfect barrel roll. “When his boss asked him what he thought he was doing rolling his plane in the air, Tex replied, ‘I’m selling airplanes.’ With a witty reply, his job was saved.”
The Canadian embassy:
Ahem.
As a former Corvette owner, I appreciated this wall hanging in a Washington restaurant:
Onward to Penn Station in New York:
My primary purpose in NYC was to go to a few jazz clubs. The first was in Greenwich Village, the Village Vanguard. I googled for a nearby restaurant and found one called “Cecchi’s.” The name rang a bell but I coudn’t place it. I went there and had a wonderful time with Ben and Miguel, and enjoyed a wonderful meal:
After a time I noticed a book on one of the shelves, “Your Table is Ready,” and realized why the name of the restaurant was familiar. The book was by Michael Cecchi-Azzolina and I had read it some years ago and loved it.
The Village Vanguard is one of the oldest and most heralded jazz clubs. In the background is One World Trade Center.
The club is located in a basement, as all good jazz clubs should be. Down a narrow staircase and you enter one of the hallmarks of jazz:
The Vanguard Jazz Orchestra has been playing, with various iterations, for decades on Monday nights and I shortened by time in DC to make it to New York for a Monday night. They did not disappoint.
Seated in front of me were two young women from Korea who were studying classical music at NYU:
They said they were at the club to try to understand jazz rhythms and chord progressions. “Good luck,” I said. “One of the reasons I love jazz is the challenge in understanding it.”
Next to me were Jack and Muheed (and a lovely woman who photo-bombed us):
Muheed and Jack were recently retired, with kids who were also music students at NYU. I introduced them to the two Korean women and they concluded that they had probably crossed paths.
The next night I went to Birdland, another jazz house, and the next night to a blues place in the Village. Once again I went to Cecchi’s for dinner. After enjoying another of Ben’s special “Ken” martinis while visiting with the person next to me, Ben said “Michael wants to talk to you.” Puzzled I looked up and there was the proprietor himself. We had a brief visit, he gave me his card and invited me to call him if I returned to NY. I asked for picture with him. He said sure, but it will cost you $7. I said no problem, add it to my bill. Instead, they comp’d my drink.
The following story is not mine. It was sent to me by one of my best friends. I loved it and felt it conveyed some of the themes that I often share. With his permission I am publishing it below, and adding one of my photographs of Morro Bay, California.
If you know me at all, you know I kind of enjoy meeting strangers and particularly enjoy some good-natured ribbing. On a long-delayed trip to Morro Bay, Noella and I arrived in time for lunch on the bay. After lunch I went for an espresso a few doors away along the waterfront. Ahead of me was an elderly lady visiting with the barista. As she turned to leave, she saw me behind her and apologized for making me wait. I jokingly told her it was a good thing I wasn’t in a hurry, or she would have been in big trouble. With that she pointed at the small dog she had on a leash and said it was a good thing I didn’t make trouble because she had her vicious attack dog with her.
We had a good laugh, and she slowly and cautiously made her way to the door relying heavily on her cane. I placed my order for espresso and on an impulse, I stepped back to the door where this fine lady was slowly making her way out and I said “Thank You! You just made my day. It’s so nice to meet someone with good humor and a smile.” I went back and paid for my drink and learned that Kat was a regular and everyone loved her. So, I took my espresso and went back outside and struck up a conversation with her. I later learned that she had recently broken her femur in 9 places, hence the cane.
By this time Noella had joined the conversation, and as we visited, we learned that this delightful woman had volunteered for many years as a psychologist and counselor for people in prisons with addictions. She spoke lovingly of all the people she had helped, and proudly told us that she had been sober for 38 years. I congratulated her and volunteered my opinion that I thought you pretty much had to have gone through addiction issues and overcome them in order to truly understand how to help others. She laughed and said “OH YEAH! It takes one to know one. These people go to school for 4 years and they think they know how to help. But I can spot them a mile away.”
She went on to say “Don’t give them to me when they’re sober, give them to me when they’re drunk or stoned. Then I can start to make some progress.” She went on to tell us that one of her specialties was suicide prevention, and that the police would call her for the really tough cases. One of those was a teenager who was threatening to burn down the house and kill his whole family along with himself. It took her 4 hours to talk him down, but she saved that family.
I shared with her that one of the toughest days of my life was when a very good friend, whose children went to the same Catholic elementary school as our kids, shot and killed her three beautiful little boys in bed and then killed herself. Noella and I knew that our friend was suffering from depression and were working with the school’s principal to see how we might help. Because of this the principal called me at home and asked if I could go to the house and be with our friend’s distraught husband while awaiting the first responders. That is probably the most difficult thing I have been asked to do.
Well, it turns out that she knew the story very well. Her son was the PE teacher at that school and in fact had very sad memories of this tragedy because he had just given a piggy-back ride to the youngest boy a few days before. That would be his last memory of him.
We started exchanging memories of this tragic day. Noella, who has never forgotten the details of an event or a name, asked her what her son’s name was and recognized it immediately. Oh, says Noella, did you know so and so? And she said, “Thats my sister!” “Well, said Noella, her son was in my daughter’s class!” Oh my what a small world.
It was getting close to the time we needed to let this wonderful lady get on with her day and get the weight off her poor leg. We had already learned that she was from a farming family west of Fresno, but I wanted to know a little more. Turns out her husband had been a big cotton grower in the tiny town of Helm, population 57. They met when she was 6 and he was 8. She went home and told her parents that she had met the man she was going to marry. She then laughed and said it took him another 25 years to figure that out for himself.
Kat obviously had had a wonderful love and was still missing him terribly 6 years after his passing. But with him gone she had enough dirt and hot days and sold the whole thing and moved to the coast.
So next time you see a nice old gal and her friendly attack dog at Daisy’s Organic Coffee and Teas on the Embarcadero in Morro Bay, stop and say hi and compliment her on her nice smile and good humor.
Fifty years ago to the day, on the last Friday of April in 1974, I drove my 1970 forest green Camaro onto the dusty gravel parking lot of a church on Olive Ave in Fresno CA. I was picking up a carload of youth group kids to take them to Southern California for the weekend. I did not want to go. I was taking 22 units in my final semester of college, and finals were coming up so I really needed the study time.
Rusty, the youth group leader and a friend of mine, had called me in desperation earlier in the week to ask if I would do this. She started reeling off the names of all the people she had already asked and they all had turned her down. “You’re my last hope.”
Sigh.
“By the way,” she continued, “Carol Harder is the youth group leader for the Reedley kids, and she will also be going.”
Hmmm. I had never met Carol Harder, or even seen her, but for some reason that piqued my interest and I agreed to go.
As I waited, other cars pulled up including one from Reedley. A beautiful young blonde woman popped out of the car, smiled at me, and said “Hi! I’m Carol.” Introductions over, we divided up the passengers into the two cars that were going. Carol was in the other car.
We stopped for gas at a run-down truck stop in the nowhere town of Mettler, and everyone got out for a stretch. Somehow, Carol and I ended up talking to each other while walking away from the rest of the group. I do not recall anything about our conversation other than at some point she let out a mild four letter word. ‘This is not your typical Mennonite girl,’ I thought to myself. But I was not your typical Mennonite boy, so my interest level was increasing.
We arrived at our destination, everyone got out, and the plan had been that I would spend the weekend with my cousin Paul in Riverside, and then meet back on Sunday after church. As I was unloading luggage, however, Carol said “you can come back for the church service on Sunday if you want.” Going to church was not high on my list back then, but seeing more of Carol was. I agreed.
Over the weekend my cousin and I had a lot of fun looking at warbirds at the Chino airport and going to see The Sting at a drive-in, but I kept thinking about this girl I had just met.
Sunday morning, Carol and I met in the back of church. She was a knockout in her orange polka dot mini-dress. We found a pew where we could sit together.
Church ended, and everyone got back in the cars in which they came, Carol once again in the other car. Half way back to Fresno we stopped to eat a late lunch in a park just off Highway 99 in Pixley. Carol and I found ourselves sitting together at a picnic table. Our conversation flowed easily, and Carol finagled with one of the kids to switch cars so she could sit with me in my car on the way home. At some point during the trip back, I invited her to go see a movie with me – The Sting. She said yes.
From that point on, we were almost inseparable. I went off to law school in September, and we were married in December.
Tonight, we will celebrate 50 years from the day we first met by watching The Sting on TV, while enjoying one of our favorite meals from when we were first married: hot dogs and mac n’ cheese.
Carol is still as beautiful as the day I met her. A blonde bombshell. We have upgraded our culinary tastes since then. But not for tonight.
It dawned cold and bright in Portland and I thought it would be a good day to go downtown to walk around and have brunch at Mother’s Bistro. Mother’s is owned by Lisa Schroeder. In 1992, while juggling a marketing and catering career and raising her daughter, Lisa realized there was no place that served the kind of food she would make if she had the time. She concluded what the world needed was a place which served “Mother Food” – slow-cooked dishes, made with love. Signs around the restaurant admonish diners to “Call Your Mother.” She honors the “mother of the month” among her staff, highlighting one of their own recipes. And she has a sense of humor. On the back of the t-shirts of her servers is “Spooning leads to Forking so use Condiments.” If one comes to Portland, Mother’s a must.
Mother’s struggled through the pandemic, but her restaurant is thriving once again and it is often hard to get a table. I arrived and, there being a wait list for a table, told the host I would be happy to sit at the counter. She said go ahead and sit wherever I wanted there. Most people in my experience try to leave at least one counter seat open next to them, afraid that sitting immediately next to a stranger might be considered an invasion of the other person’s (or their own) personal space.
For example, the seating options at the counter when I arrived were:
O O O X O
where O is an open seat, and X is occupied. In my younger years I would have taken the one on the far left, leaving two in between. Now in my later years, I have discovered the joys of striking up conversations with total strangers, so I chose the seat on the far right. The diner next to me was finishing up, and had her credit card ready. She looked slightly away since I had violated the unwritten rule about leaving an open seat in between.
After getting settled, I asked her “any recommendations?”
She turned, paused, and said “I had the omelette special and it was very good. It’s not on the menu though.”
I thought I detected an accent. “Are you visiting?”
“No I live in Portland now.”
“Is that an accent? Are you Canadian?”
She laughed. “I get asked that a lot, but no, I’m from Ireland.”
“Ah, sorry, I’m from Canada and can usually tell.”
“Oh, what part of Canada?” This led to a discussion of our respective backgrounds. She left Ireland when she was 20, and after a few years in Chicago, came to Portland and has been here for 25 years. She wondered if I was a visitor. “No, I live in Portland, in the South Waterfront area.”
“Then what brings you downtown to Mother’s Bistro?” she asked.
“I used to keep an office downtown, and loved it. I’ve always enjoyed walking around downtown, going to Powell’s Bookstore, having breakfast at one of the numerous brunch places, seeing all that was going on. I loved that you could walk anywhere in Portland, at any time of the day or night, and feel perfectly safe.”
“I know! Portland is wonderful!” she blurted.
“Now, after the pandemic,” I said, “I still like coming downtown to take the temperature of the city, and see what areas are recovering and which are not.”
I ordered the Migas, a delicious mixture of jack cheese, green onions, peppers, corn tortilla strips, chipotle sour cream, and housemade salsa.
“So what brings you downtown to Mother’s today?” I asked. “Do you live nearby?”
She laughed. “No, my husband and I have an arrangement. Each month or so, one of us goes away for a night so we can take a break from each other. This is my time away. I manage four hotels in the area so I get the employee discount and stayed in one of them last night. After this I am going for a spa day and getting my nails done before going home.”
“I love it! One of the reasons I am here by myself is so that my wife and I have some ‘away’ time from each other, since we spent all day together yesterday. When I was still in practice, I was gone 10 to 12 hours a day, and she got used to having the house to herself. Now that I’m retired, it’s hard sometimes, so my being here today is some of our ‘away’ time.”
We talked some more, and then after awhile she started to get up, saying “well, I suppose I need to get going.”
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Linda, and yours?”
“Ken.”
“This has been just delightful,” she said with a big smile, the nervousness of a total stranger sitting next to her and making conversation having long passed. “I’m so glad you sat here. I’ve really enjoyed this.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s been fun visiting with you. I always prefer sitting at the counter when I am alone, rather than a table by myself.”
“I agree!” She started rummaging through her purse. “Here, let me give you my card.” She couldn’t find one, so she wrote her email address on the back of her receipt and gave it to me. “Three of my hotels are at the airport. If you and your wife are ever flying off somewhere, let me know and I’ll arrange for you to park your car at one of them.”
She left, and by now a group of three had been seated at the three counter seats to the far left, leaving an empty seat next to me. I enjoyed my coffee, and after a bit, my Migas.
Soon, another woman came and took the open seat. I gave her some time to explore the menu before saying “the woman who had been sitting there had the omelette special and said it was really good. I’m having the Migas.”
We began a conversation. Her name is Mandy, and she is visiting her brother. She is from Madison, Wisconsin. “Oh, I’ve been there,” I responded. “Love that place. Great college town, just the right size, on a lake.” (Like the Johnny Cash song, ‘I’ve been everywhere, man, I’ve been everywhere’.)
I told her “I go to Oshkosh for the big aviation festival there every few years. I’m going again next year. On the way there one time I stayed in Milwaukee and went to the Braut Festival. The Steve Miller band was playing.”
“Did you have a brat?” she asked.
“Yup, love them.”
She loves Portland too, thinks it’s a great town. We talked about fasting (she went 36 hours once), and listening to your body (I eat a meal late morning, and usually don’t get hungry again until 7pm).
Her food arrived. We talked some more and then I said “I’ll leave you to your oatmeal.” With a big smile, she thanked me for visiting with her.
A wonderful morning, made better by violating the rule of Xs and Os, and sitting next to a total stranger.
I just learned that Gordon Lightfoot has died, and I cannot keep the tears from streaming down my cheek.
In 1972, when I was at UCSB for my sophomore year in college, there was a local folk group who called themselves “The Storyville Players.” My friends and I saw them one night at an Isla Vista club, IV being the UCSB student ghetto. I’m still not sure how they let us in, we were only 19. Maybe it was a dry club, or a coffee house, or they didn’t care. No matter, I did not have any alcohol but was intoxicated by the music, and especially the harmonies they sung. At one point the female lead singer exuded that they were going to LA soon to hear their hero, Gordon Lightfoot. Lightfoot was a solo singer-songwriter, yet they sang his songs with mesmerizing harmony. It was a life-changing moment. As soon as my meager funds permitted, I bought the latest Gordon Lightfoot album – Alberta Bound. It spoke to my Canadian roots – Lightfoot was then based in Toronto, and that is where I was born. I wore that album out.
Carol and I met in 1974. We found out that we had much in common. A strange sense of humor (an early date was going to Blazing Saddles, and she did not give me the boot) and Gordon Lightfoot. We both had “If You Could Read My Mind” in our respective record collections.
We became serious the summer of 1974, when Lightfoot’s Sundown became the number 1 song, and we bought his album by the same name. We wore that album out, got engaged in September, and married in December. Our first musical purchase as a young married couple was his Carefree Highway.
Life happened, and we started to raise our family. Our kids no doubt got tired of my playing his music, but they were too young to say “hey dad, can you give it a rest.” Over time, Lightfoot became part of their lives as well.
Traveling through western Canada with the kids on one of many road trips, as we approached the place where the golden spike was struck, I played the Canadian Railroad Trilogy. Tim writes “Impossible to think about our great family road trips and not think about Gordo. Thank you, Dad, for bringing him into our lives.”
Older, my kids once told me they thought when they were young that I was Gordon Lightfoot. I kind of looked like him – a bit of a stretch I know, but I did have the moustache, and I knew all the words, the melodies, and the harmonies of all his songs. They just assumed I was him. But they grew out of it.
Finally, I was able to see him perform at Harrah’s in Reno. He came out, and it was obvious he was well lubricated. He flubbed a lot, and even forgot some of the words to his legendary “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I was devastated. But then I got to thinking that someone who wrote the ballads he penned could not have had a choir boy life. It made sense. His must have been a hard life. Only later did I find out that he got his musical start singing in a church choir!
Later still I found out that it was during this period in his life when he had taken up with the woman who had given John Belushi his fatal dose of drugs.
The next time I saw Gord, he proudly announced that he was sober. His eyes were bright, he was clearly enjoying himself, and he remembered all of the words to the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, and every other song he sang.
My son took up the guitar, and I suppose it is not going too far to say that Gordie was one of his musical heroes as well. I took him to see Gord in San Luis Obispo one time. The show started at 8pm and to kill some time before the show began we grabbed a hot dog somewhere. We got to the show safely at 7:55pm – and I was devastated to find out the show had started at 7:30. Tim was accommodating way beyond what a young man of his years should have been to his father who had not bothered to double check the start time. We bonded anyway. It was a memorable time.
My kids grew up, and in time we took them and their spouses to Las Vegas to see Lightfoot in person at The Orleans. I got everyone seated, and then, quite spontaneously, told them “OK kids, I’ve got to take care of something for a bit, but I’ll see you right after the performance” and winked. They laughed, but there was only one Gordon Lightfoot, and it was not me. I sat down, and we enjoyed the show.
Much later, Carol and I saw him when he was much older – and showed it. He had become gaunt, and wasn’t able to hit his high notes. Yet the audience was understanding, and loved him.
Carol and I last saw him in Phoenix a few years ago. At the end of the show, I turned to her and said “I don’t think I need to see him again. I would rather remember him when he was younger, and he could hit all the notes…and I could too.”
Gordon Lightfoot had a near death experience a number of years ago, and yet he came through it and after an extended period of recuperation started touring again. He didn’t need the money. Singing was what he did. It was who he was. Without his audiences, he may not have had a reason to live. So he toured.
But even his audiences could not keep him alive forever, and today he died.
And I still cannot keep the tears from streaming down.
When I was in college and thought I wanted to be a psychiatrist, I started reading psychology journals to see what I was in for. The foray into a psychiatric career didn’t last long, but I did read an article then that has stuck with me all these years.
The subjects of a study were asked to write down each song that would come into their consciousness throughout each day, and then record how they were feeling at the time. There was quite a correlation. I have often found that a song that lingers in my mind is a strikingly accurate indicator of how I am actually feeling.
Today, Steve Winwood’s “Back in the High Life Again” has been in my mind. I am not surprised. Yesterday I received word that I have healed and will not require jaw replacement surgery. When my oral oncologist delivered the news, I started fist-pumping like Kirk Gibson gimping around the bases on a bum leg after his famous home run in the 1988 World Series. We high-fived, and she and her assistant were beaming almost as much as I.
A year ago, the news was not so rosy. An oral surgeon had rendered the verdict that my two lower wisdom teeth had to come out and, thanks to radiation three years earlier, their removal would almost certainly lead to necrosis (death!) of my jaw requiring jaw replacement – a truly hideous procedure. This news led me to a pretty dark place. Fortunately, after a few months in a deep funk I was referred to Dr. Heidi Hansen. The outstanding care provided by her and her team at Providence Oral Oncology not only gave me hope, but ultimately brought about this great result. (It did not hurt that I spent what seemed like 2 or 3 hours a day on oral care, as she had directed.)
The euphoria of this moment will, of course, pass and other challenges will arise. But for right now, for this moment, I am back in the high life…again.
In World War I, submarine technology was in its infancy. One European country had a unique design, consisting of a steel tube that was so small the operator rode on top of it, not in it. An open-cockpit submarine as it were. SCUBA technology had not evolved to make this practical, so the model was quickly abandoned.
Enlarge that tube just a bit, and you have my home for 2 hours a day for the next 6 weeks: the SS HBC, or, a Hyper-Baric Chamber. The idea is that if you are in need of better healing than your body can provide on its own, you go in the chamber, put on an oxygen mask, they bring the pressure up to 2.4 atmospheres (the equivalent of being under water at a depth of 45 feet), and ram the oxygen into your system.
In my case, radiation therapy has robbed my jaw of the ability to heal after extraction of wisdom teeth, which my medico-dental crew has said is desperately required. It is scheduled for early February and the chances for healing will be enhanced with 20 dives before surgery and 10 dives after. Another voyager has had Type I diabetes since he was young, and has already lost one leg with another teetering on the edge. Another fellow traveler had an industrial accident. Two others were pretty quiet so I let it go.
Each dive takes about 2 hours. It takes about 10 minutes to bring the chamber to the requisite depth. You do not feel the pressure on your body, but your ears feel the change in pressure. I am lucky to have the ability to open my eustachian tubes at will, but I was still amazed at how quickly the pressure changed. They put a helmet on your head that looks like a clear plastic upside down pail, something out of a 1950’s sci fi movie. You then breathe pure oxygen for about a half an hour, then the pail comes off for 5 minutes as you get to take a break, back on for half an hour, another 5 minute break, then another half hour and back up to sea level.
Maggy is the Dive Master. She focused most of her time and attention on me since I was the newbie. The other 5 voyagers had already been there before and knew what to expect. She and I talked about the difference between the HBC, and the altitude chamber I had been in as a young pilot. She had a small rubber inflatable ball that she proudly displayed to me and asked me to watch as it collapsed in size during the dive, and later got back to normal size on the ascent. She is a Dive Master in the truest sense – she goes SCUBA diving too.
The process sounds simple, but outside there is a panel that looks like something out of NASA that is run by another operator.
They like the nautical analogy. They put stickers of fish on the walls of the chamber, and talk about dives, and depth, and descent, and ascent. The chamber is actually used for deep sea divers who get the bends and need to be brought back down to depth, and then brought up more slowly.
When the massive door was closed at the beginning with a loud clunk, I was glad I am not prone to claustrophobia. Immediately the sound level got loud as the motors pumped pressurized air into the chamber and oxygen into the helmets. They had a movie going on a small screen on one end of the chamber, but it was hard to hear the tv due to the other noises. I tried to read some books and newspapers I had brought, but the optics of the inflatable plastic helmet were horrible, and I started to get nausea and gave up. I watched the movie, which was not much better, but I managed to get through it all, and am hoping the next 29 dives will be better as I adjust to the sensations.
All in all though, given the choice I’d recommend Holland America for your next voyage.
It had to happen at some point. Other than me being gone on a trip now and then, we have always shared our marital bed. Until last tonight. And tonight, which is our 48th anniversary. Until I now I have never been sent to the doghouse, or had to sleep on the sofa.
Dang covid!
Carol came down with it two days ago, and tested positive yesterday. She started Paxlovid today. Hers seems to be a mild case; her fever broke after only two days, and she hardly coughs or sneezes, and has no trouble breathing. She is quarantining in our bedroom, and I am waiting on her hand and foot (both of us donning our N95s), hoping that I come down with it too so we can share the load. For now though, I am still testing negative with no symptoms other than loneliness. I have a prescription for Paxlovid too, just in case.
So tonight will be different than our last 47 anniversaries. Carol is reading in the bedroom, and I get to watch Top Gun Maverick. So maybe it’s not so bad.
2 WASTED MINUTES 